


Round of Questions

by expectopatronuts



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Post-Break Up, Post-Fall of Overwatch, Requited Unrequited Love, They Both Have Feelings Still and It's a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 13:25:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14853599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/expectopatronuts/pseuds/expectopatronuts
Summary: “I just wanted to talk to you,” Angela said, her face earnest with worry. “That paper was bad, Moira. It’s not like you to lose perspective like that.”





	Round of Questions

**Author's Note:**

> here's a short and mostly pointless thing because the science girlfriends finally got spawn room interactions!

“I would like to finish by saying that, aside from the ethical questionability of the supposed results, Dr O’Deorain’s research is fraught with so many methodological flaws — including self-selected samples, no real measure of adjustment, incorrect forms of analysis bordering on guesswork, and unexamined bias — that further examination of her paper would be an exercise in futility. Thank you very much for your time and attention.”

The room broke into a round of polite yet enthusiastic applause as Angela bowed her head slightly in acknowledgement, and Moira took the chance to slip away unnoticed before the questions began.

The bathroom was thankfully empty, and Moira set down her tablet on the counter. Alone, she breathed a little easier and the tension in her back eased a bit. She leaned forward, placing her left hand on the edge of the sink, and looked at her reflection in the mirror.

Everything was impeccable, as always. Black shirt neatly tucked into her trousers, blue tie perfectly knotted with a half-Windsor, flawless make-up. The only indicators that something might be wrong were her right hand, bandaged loosely and hanging on a sling, and her pupils, much wider than the bright light of the bathroom warranted.

“Get a grip,” she hissed at her reflection.

She ran a hand through her hair, knowing that all that could be achieved was to disrupt the carefully gelled look, and was in the process of tucking back into place an errant strand when the door opened.

Inquisitive blue eyes looked at her, reflected in the mirror.

“It’s not like you to hide,” Angela said as the door closed behind her.

Moira pushed the strand of hair down with one finger. Her eyes flickered to Angela’s reflection, then back to her own in feigned indifference.

“This just in—Dr Ziegler proves in new revolutionary paper that taking a piss and hiding are now equivalent.”

The mockery carried a hint of bitterness, and Moira wondered how much of it showed in her voice. Angela only smiled slightly.

"You know what I mean,” she said. “You’ve never missed a chance to grill me in a round of questions before.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Moira answered shortly. “Forgive me if I didn’t have many questions about my methodological flaws. Besides, even if I did, it would be a — how did you put it? — ah, yes — an exercise in futility.”

Finally, the little strand of hair stayed in its place, and Moira turned around, leaning on the sink.

“ _Ach, komm_ ,” Angela said, spreading her hands. “It was the truth. You experimented on yourself. That alone is enough to call your results into question. Which, as I already said, I wasn’t able to replicate on animal subjects.”

Moira clenched her jaw.

“That’s your problem,” Moira said. “Your own ineptitude—”

“The Geneva researchers failed too, as did the Numbani team,” Angela cut her off. “I don’t know what you think you discovered, but custom genetic programs are just not stable.”

Angela was looking at her with her eyebrows slightly drawn, like Moira was a problem she couldn’t quite figure out.

“Harold Winston disproved the possibility of such programs over ten years ago,” Angela said when Moira didn’t speak. “Why have you dug this up now?” There was genuine curiosity in her voice. “Is it really worth — well —”

She made a small gesture towards Moira’s blackened hand. She pressed it closer to her chest and said nothing. Suddenly, with an unsuspected agility, Angela closed the distance between them and stood on tip-toe, peering intently into her face until Moira made a little irritated sound and turned away slightly.

“You’re on sleeping pills again,” Angela said, not stepping back. “Your pupils are dilated,” she added, like Moira didn’t know. “What is it, Z drugs?”

Apparently, since Moira hadn't grilled her in the round of questions, Angela was going to grill _her_.

“None of your business, that’s what it is,” Moira snapped back. “Now, shove off and don’t be annoying me,” she said, grabbing her tablet and stepping around Angela so their positions were reversed. “I’m sure your adoring fans will be dying to talk to you and I, for one, have to be going.”

She turned away, but she didn’t make it a single step towards the door before Angela grabbed her by the right arm. It was above the line where the blackened tissue began, but it still sent a dull throbbing down her arm. Moira shook herself loose with a hiss of pain.

“Fuck you, Ziegler,” Moira spat before Angela could say anything. “You’ve had your fun, you shut me down good and proper today, the least you could do is piss off when you’re asked to, don’t you think?”

Holding up her hands, Angela managed to look genuinely apologetic.

“I just wanted to talk to you,” she said, her face earnest with worry. “That paper was _bad_ , Moira. It’s not like you to lose perspective like that.”

The fluorescent light was beginning to make Moira’s head throb. She could feel the slow pressure of exhaustion in the back of her head, pushing relentlessly.

“Maybe I just have a different perspective than you do,” she shrugged. 

“Well, yes, but—” Angela broke off with a little helpless gesture. “You wrecked your own right hand!”

“I’m left-handed, don’t worry about it,” Moira answered.

Angela didn’t smile. Her eyebrows drew further together and her lips twitched slightly.

“It’s crazy. Moira, please.” She pushed a strand of white-blond hair behind her ear. “You can’t keep doing this. Not to yourself, and not to other people.”

Moira narrowed her eyes.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” she said, in a tone that was deceptively calm.

Angela looked back steadily.

“Gabriel Reyes,” she said. Then, voice shaking slightly, “Amélie Lacroix. Whatever else you’ve done for Talon.”

“You do realize there’s no proof of any of that, yes?” Moira replied, softly. “There is no trace of any affiliation with Talon. I’ve done nothing that can be held against me in a court of law.”

“Oh, of course not,” Angela scoffed. “But you’ve done things that anyone with a functioning moral compass would hold against you.”

“Do you?”

At that, Angela made a little exasperated noise.

“Describing your work as unethical would be a kindness,” she said resolutely, crossing her arms over her chest, as though daring Moira to contradict her.

“But the true question is whether or not you can deny my discoveries.” Now it was Moira’s turn to challenge her. She raised her eyebrows and waited a second, until it became clear that no answer was forthcoming. “No,” she finished then. “I didn’t think so.”

They had had this conversation so often, it felt almost scripted. It was good to know that in the months since Overwatch had disbanded and she and Angela had broken up their—whatever it was—she hadn’t lost practice.

But to her surprise, Angela decided to let it go.

“It’s just—” She took in a deep breath. When she next looked up, Moira was moderately alarmed to see that her lower lip trembled slightly. “It’s not worth it, Moira,” she said, almost a whisper. “You’re so, so much better than this.”

Moira felt something twist unpleasantly in her chest.

“Don’t,” she said, turning away slightly. “Just don’t.”

She didn’t think she could deal with any sort of emotional manipulation right now. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Angela push a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I miss you, Moira,” she said then, almost inaudibly.

Moira turned to her but the scathing comment died on the tip of her tongue. Angela looked at her so earnestly that it was impossible not to believe her. She really did think Moira was better than this, she was worried for her, she missed her. Again, Moira felt the twist in her chest.

“I know—I know we didn’t always get along,” Angela stammered. “I know we fought, and I said terrible things—so did you, mind you—” Moira’s lips twitched at the aside “—and we disagreed on many things,” Angela went on, “but we—I— _Gott_ , I just want it back. I just want things to be the way they were.”

She had somehow closed the distance between them until they were standing very close. Moira opened her mouth to speak, closed it, opened it again.

“Oh, lass,” she said finally, and she was surprised to hear her own voice waver.

She hadn’t meant to say it, same as she hadn’t meant to put her good arm around Angela’s shoulder or let Angela lean on her chest, or gently rest her chin on her head in what was a familiarly comfortable pose.

“You deserve so much more,” she said. “So much more than this—than me.”

When Angela looked up, shaking her head, Moira saw tears shining in her eyes.

“None of that, now,” Moira said, softly. “Go back out there, back to your admirers. Back to your Captain Amari. Go be happy.”

Angela sniffed and smiled a smile so sad it made Moira’s chest hurt. She swallowed and wiped her eyes.

“I—” She broke off. “Please come back.”

“Back to what, Angela?” said Moira, perhaps more sharply than she meant to. “I’m a disgrace to Overwatch. I’m a disgrace to the scientific community. Isn’t that what you all say? There is nothing left for me to go back to.”

“But together we could—”

But Angela stopped mid-sentence when the door of the bathroom opened suddenly.

“Angela?” said Amari even before coming in. “Are you—oh.” Her expression changed as she spotted Moira. Her eyes flickered from her, to Angela, then back. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, yes,” said Angela quickly, rubbing her hand over her eyes as discretely as she could. She even managed a smile. “Everything’s fine, Fareeha.”

“Well.” Moira ran a hand through her hair and felt the little strand that she had so carefully coached into place fall onto her forehead again. “Good-bye, Dr Ziegler,” she said. She made her way to the door. Her steps resonated strangely in the uncomfortable silence. “Captain Amari,” she nodded her head towards Fareeha once.

“Moira,” Angela called behind her. “Please wait.”

It took all of Moira’s willpower to keep walking. If she looked back, she would turn to salt. Or worse, all the words she had been holding back— _I miss you too, angel_ —would spill out. Instead, she kept going and let the bathroom door shut behind her.

It was for the best, she told herself. It was _right_. Angela deserved a chance at happiness. She was doing the right thing.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she wondered why, then, it felt like her chest was being ripped open with every step she took.

**Author's Note:**

> i'd love to hear your thoughs, so maybe leave a comment?  
> or you can also find me procrastinating on tumblr @expectopatronuts


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